I have stated, in a former page, that our heroine had not altogether escaped the tongue of calumny—that pale daughter of Envy, engendered by cowardice, and nurtured by hatred and deceit. Evil report had even pursued her in her solitude; and now, as she passed, and gracefully acknowledged the respectful salutation of di Balzano, a knot of young exquisites, who only knew her by sight, commenced a conversation, of which the English signora was the subject: “_E una bella donna_,” said the Prince Cassero, “but they say she is the cast off mistress of the Count Syracuse.” “Ah, yes,” said another, “and her lover killed himself in despair.” “She is evidently,” said a third, “a _donna leggiera_.” “Well,” lisped a youth of about seventeen, “she is a fine creature, and sympathetic. I think I shall make her acquaintance.” De Balzano could bear no more; he sprang into the midst of this dastardly coterie like a tiger. He was superb in his disdainful anger. “Gentlemen,” he said, “you are all cowards. That English lady is my friend, and you shall all answer to me for what you have said, or make a most humble apology in writing, confessing that your statements are false. I expect to hear from you at the Palazzo Balzano.” Thus saying, he left the _café_ and returned home. He was a crack shot, fenced beautifully, and was an adept at the sword exercise. It is, after this, useless to say that a full and ample apology was made in writing by all the offenders, and from that moment not a whisper was ever breathed against the fair fame of the English signora. Too delicate to inform us of this circumstance himself, we heard of it by chance some days afterwards, through one who had been a spectator of the scene. Our grateful acknowledgments to our kind protector may be easily imagined; and from that time di Balzano became a constant visitor at our home. We presented our credentials to our kind and respected minister, Sir W. Temple, who received us with true English hospitality. Once more we entered the glittering halls of pleasure—once more my heroine became apparently the gayest of the gay; but she had learned a lesson. No longer a coquette, she sought the society of ladies, rather than that of the opposite sex. Di Balzano had no reason for jealousy; poor fellow—I saw that his heart was irretrievably hers. He paid her the most respectful attention, and she appeared to feel for him sincere friendship and esteem—nothing more. Yet such a marriage might have satisfied even one as fastidious as was Evelyn. Balzano was handsome, noble, good, independent in fortune, and deeply in love; he was manly, (a rare quality in an Italian,) honorable, brave, and unselfish almost to a fault.